


reminisce

by reflectionslie (fallsink)



Category: UNIQ (Band)
Genre: AU, Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallsink/pseuds/reflectionslie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yixuan is art like this</p>
            </blockquote>





	reminisce

**Author's Note:**

> for xjficfest and the prompt beginnings c:

at times, sungjoo wakes at night cold and afraid, disoriented in the bleakness of the darkness and gasping tears. but it’s become such a common occurrence nowadays that with a few deep shaky breaths, he escapes the cage, though not unscathed and still carrying a tight chest and clammy skin.

shanghai is quieter now at 3am and sungjoo is a seasoned warrior and knows that sleep has left for the night so he slips out from the blankets, pajama pants skimming the ground and already knowing that the other bed in the hotel room is cold and vacant as well.

the steaming coffee is bitingly bitter against his tongue and is scalding in contrast with his bare feet against the tiled floor of the small kitchen. sungjoo hates the decor of the tiny space, with the tasteless paint and muted appliances that once shone, but it’s an upgrade to the last hotel they stayed at in wenhan’s hometown. the five members had been separated into three groups and with loud neighbors in between to further the distance.

at least this time the five of them share a suite and there’s a living room to connect them.

sungjoo really shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but it still hits him sometimes with he sees lights on in which ever common room they reside in that night, because there’s only one who’s stupid — or passionate — enough to do this. 

it’s no secret that occasionally yixuan wakes from sleep like he does, because he’s seen it himself, though for very different reasons. it never fails to amaze sungjoo how yixuan took on the role of leadership with complete abandon and pushing the limits even further than anyone could imagine. it’s what he’s born to do, meant for it in every possible way, no doubt, but there’s always a cost, even if everyone doesn’t see it.

but sungjoo does. ever since sungjoo laid eyes on the older chinese man, his gaze has never quite left. so he knows every line beneath yixuan’s eyes and all the small pimples that pop up like goosebumps from broken cycles, long before they’re smudged away by makeup and blinding lights.

and he sees it even more now as he leans against the doorframe, unnoticed. he takes in the papers scrawled with ink and a pair of glasses that are abandoned on the desk beneath the dull light of the shitty desk lamp that hangs like a wilting flower.

but he really only has eyes for the silhouette against the window, eyes closed and head leaning against the glass. yixuan is art like this, his figure greyscale in contrast to the gradient of navy sky blues and night purples with scattered city yellows and white road windings.

the suite is an almost ironic design really, three bedrooms that have gaping windows facing different directions, funneling different cityscapes into the mouths of its residents. but, inevitably, there yixuan in the center, standing steady behind it all and holding it all together. 

all roads lead back to home.

but what is yixuan without the members, a home without its occupants? is it not just a structure without meaning? sometimes when he thinks that no one is looking, sungjoo notices the spaces where yixuan hasn’t filled, where the untold stories rest, stories of a boy grown up too fast, too soon.

when he thinks of what —  _who_  — yixuan was, before the world told him who he should be, sungjoo thinks it must be this — long frame folded loosely on the windowsill, face half-lit, soft hair falling into softer eyes that remain untouched by the tricks and games of the world. 

and he wonders if yixuan remembers too.

yixuan startles from his thoughts the same way he does when he gets asked a question that he doesn’t know how to respond right away — with blinking eyes, a hum deep in his throat, and a slow, unhurried smile.

taking in the offered drink, yixuan raises his eyebrows, but takes it anyway with a quiet, ‘isn’t it a bit late for coffee?’

sungjoo pulls up the chair and straddles it, arms holding across the back and replies, 'it’s morning somewhere in the world.’

these are the moments that sungjoo treasures the most because this is when yixuan looks at him the way he remembers — forgetting all the responsibilities he has and just stares at sungjoo in a way that’s neither invasive nor demanding. and all distance, difference, time, roles, troubles,  _everything_ falls away.

the morning hours are lapsed like this, silence slowly filling with noise carried from streets below and passing the mug of coffee instead of the words they already know. and they greet the blue dawn together with eyelashes heavy with dreams and memories.

**Author's Note:**

> xuanjoo is pain. come cry with me


End file.
